


Red

by Cai (Zanya)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, F/M, Gen, Mild Gore, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2691902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanya/pseuds/Cai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time slipped away, like the red running down his fingers. Nothing like he expected. Nothing special. Messy. Empty. Barren.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Idk. I wrote this one for me but thought I'd edit and post it.

Red streaks dripped down the moss-covered wall, congealing between the dense clumps of spongy spores until there was nothing more than scarlet mixed in with green and brown. It reminded him of a small forest of blood, dirt, and grass that slowly overtook his canvas, growing uninhibited and leaving him to write in between the patches. His finger slid along, getting stuck on the soft bumps, painting, seeking out for something he couldn’t name. Maybe his hands sought for the freedom to express what they wanted to say, or perhaps it meant nothing. They just slid up and down, marking the wall, covering over the older chips of red that had begun to flake and crack. 

The ragged digit moved down and then across, pausing only a moment to get more on his fingers and finish with another downward stroke. The straight lines and slants fitting perfectly to what his mind had screamed only a few moments ago… or maybe hours. He lost track of time somewhere in between leaving his mark along the wall and the constant headache pounding in the center of his forehead. 

He had done wonderfully keeping track in the beginning by watching the light from the sun and the shadows it cast move across the floor, but hunger and thirst forced his mind pliable to anything but logic so the numbers slipped through his thoughts, falling away, leaving him confused. He eagerly searched for something that would remind him or spark some recollection. Instead, he found he couldn’t help but focus on how messy his style had become. 

The paint, it wouldn’t stay like it normally did, and the texture didn’t feel quite right. The new canvas didn’t feel as smooth like the white textured board he normally used. His hands, now bruised and blistered, shook with each stroke. They didn’t have the accuracy his brushes did. The lines blurred, smeared and didn’t set well once dried. He had to stop and peel away the blistered skin to keep it from blotching, while absentmindedly rubbing his thumb across the dark patches of skin, each sting of pain keeping him anchored to his task. The color didn’t look as bright as it did yesterday. 

Yesterday… yesterday didn’t feel like hell, though. 

Hell, an abstract concept yet so real he could feel the burn in his knees and legs from sitting or standing on them for so long. No matter what position he put them in, it only made the pins and needles sensation worse until he couldn't feel anything anymore. His legs numbed so that whenever he moved the prickly sensation crawled up his skin, rendering his body frozen, unable to move because of sting that jolted through his nerves endings. The skin around his kneecaps stung, the peeling skin heated and raw, from moving back and forth against the cement floor each time he needed to dip his finger in so he could paint more. This time three across to complete the word. 

He considered his work almost done but something seemed missing, lost that whenever he inhaled his breath caught in his throat. Deep in recesses of his mind, he could feel the inadequacy, the lack of talent. His inspiration, lost, gone, and he didn’t understand why. Nothing, the emptiness in his mind consumed him. Frustrated him. Angered him enough that twice he had wipe away the red across his thighs, smearing what he had done along the wall and blooding his fingers from scraping skin off the tips. 

The pounding in his head ruined his concentration until he yanked on his hair, ripping small clumps out. Everyday he felt like this. Everyday for how long? He wasn't even sure anymore. He ran his fingers down his face, red smearing across his cheek, drying into a dull brown while his fingers dug a little harsher into the skin than necessary. He looked at his hand and realized he’d never finish the last two letters, the l, the most important part because then his work would be finished. Then a thought stuck him. If he finished, would he be allowed to leave? There seemed to no end to this, and the thought of seeing something other than the four small walls on one tiny window above both frightened and elated him. What would he do and where would he go? 

He reached his hand down to re-dip his index finger, keeping his eyes focused on the wall. The unsteadiness of his hands made the letters look more screwed, their lines wobbly, runny. He pulled his hand back when he felt a jab against his skin, looking down, noticing the sharp gray end of the bone jutting out of her ribcage. The gaping hole grabbed his thoughts and pulled his attention away from his work. When had he moved so close to her that his leg touched? He carefully maneuvered his finger around the sharp edge, dipping once more, relieved he didn’t break anything. Too many bits of bone had broken off already. Her hair had already lost its luster and the smell had become overwhelming. Still, it didn't deter him. His digit dug further in the cold stickiness and pushed around to get as much as it could. 

When he finished the last two parts, two swift, jerky motions down, some of the red dripped down his calves. He drew his finger down the wall once more, finishing the final splotch of red and leaned back to look at his work. 

Nothing like he expected. Nothing special. Messy. Empty. Barren. 

His hands dropped to his sides, and he leaned his head against the wall, his hand once again seeking the red warmth. His body slid down and slumped until he touched the cold skin of her legs. His eyes avoided the pulled back skin and gaping hole in her chest. Bending on his knees he shuffled closer until his arms were on either side of her waist. He lowered his head and gently scooted up so that he could lay it on her chest, his hand stroking her heart, trying to feel for the pulsating sign of life. His hand stayed even though the soft thumping stopped days ago, and his eyes slid closed when he realized that the red warmth had long since turned cold.


End file.
